


lay me down in golden dandelions

by alekszova



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, One Shot, do i know how to tag this ... no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21927670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alekszova/pseuds/alekszova
Summary: Arthur is sick, and he wants to spend the last of his time with Charles.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Comments: 15
Kudos: 90





	lay me down in golden dandelions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chibbers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chibbers/gifts).



He thinks it started like this:

They just got Jack back. There were still scrapes on his body bleeding from the fight in the graveyard, but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle. They were just scrapes and bruises, nothing new. Nothing that Arthur hadn't had before, nothing that wasn't already there from the night before. Arthur is always in a state of falling apart. It's a wonder how he is held together by all this scar tissue 

The celebration was something else. Singing and dancing and drinking. A lot of drinking. Too much drinking. Arthur thinks it started here because he remembers tossing his gloves into his bag and seeing the bloodstains from corpses and the crowded streets of Saint Denis full of already sick people in his way, bumping against him on the too small streets. He thinks about the corpses and the diseases and his open wounds and how easily the infections could have gotten in. He thinks about it more in detail now, laying on his bed struggling to breathe and think and see, than he did at that moment at his horse before he went back to the singing and the drinking and the storytelling.

It's been two days since then, and now Arthur is sick and he's pretty sure he's dying. It set on fast. A cough in his lungs and a fever in his head. Everything a little foggy and a little distant like he can't quite hold on. Like a dream or a nightmare where everything hinges on him being able to grab something but his hand can't quite reach it. His fingers too weak to grasp it. Two things repelling one another.

And he's cold. It's freezing in Shady Belle. The worn blankets don't do enough and his coat is laid out over him in an attempt to help preserve the heat, but he's still freezing.

Arthur is dying, and there is so much left to do. He has too much unfinished business. He is so tired, trying to cling onto this life. But he keeps falling asleep. For minutes at a time, jolting awake like sleep is just giving in to death.

 _Not yet_ , he promises himself. _Not just yet._

  
  


"You shouldn't be here," Arthur croaks. "I'll get you sick."

"I'll be careful," Charles says, and Arthur knows he will. Not touching a single thing in his room. Not coming too close. "I came to check on you."

"Yeah?" he whispers. "Come to see if I'm dead yet?"

"You're not dying, Arthur."

"I am. Who are you to say I'm not?"

"Someone smarter than you," Charles replies. "You're not dying. And I brought you food, so you better eat it."

"Or what? You'll kill me?"

"Yes."

Arthur smiles softly, allowing himself this one thing in a moment of vulnerability. He's already dying. What's it going to do to his courage and his honor to pretend Charles doesn't make him happy?"

"Are you goin' to feed it to me?"

"I'm not your mother."

"No," he says. "'Spose not. And I'd get you sick and then you'd be dying too."

"You are not dying."

"Because you said so?"

"Yes," he replies. "Eat. Rest. You'll be better in a few days. This will pass."

Arthur turns his head against the pillow, closing his eyes against the bright light of the sun as a cloud leaves it, flooding the space with more light than before. He listens to the clank of a bowl left on a table, of Charles' footsteps on his way out. The familiar _clunk clunk clunk_ as he descends the stairs. The walls here are thin. He keeps his window open for the flow of air and the chatter of the people below, despite the incomprehensible nature of it. It's comforting. And he's tired.

But he eats. Despite his lack of appetite, he eats as much as he can manage before falling back asleep. Allowing himself it this time for a bit longer than a minute or two.

  
  


Arthur is not dying. He's just an idiot. He's an idiot that spends his days out in the woods and the towns chasing down things people ask him for and helping recover wagons and doing Dutch's bidding as though Dutch is incapable of doing anything for himself. Charles can hardly hold it against Arthur for always being gone from the camp, he stretches his own hunting trips out as long as he can manage for the sole reason of being tired of Karen and Grimshaw arguing or Sadie and Pearson's arguing or anybody and everybody arguing over something. And then there's Micah, who sometimes he considers pushing a little closer to the firepit when he passes out beside it.

But Arthur is different. He's a miracle. Living and breathing despite it all. He's good at what he does, but Charles hears the stories they tell and when he looks to Arthur he sees someone staring into the distance like he's not quite rooted in the same reality as them.

And Charles comes back when it rains. He doesn't go further north than he has to, and he wears the proper gear when he does. Arthur is just a reckless idiot bastard that isn't dying, just proving for a moment that he's as human as they are. It's a wonder how he hasn't gotten sick sooner. He comes back with his clothes drenched and caked in mud and he doesn't say a single word about it, like it's normal for him to be spending a week by the river hunting moose.

He's an idiot and he's sick, but he isn't _dying_.

Charles refuses to believe he's dying. Arthur has proved to survive the impossible already. This will not kill him. It can't.

  
  


"I'm going to get you medicine," Charles says, standing by the door with his arms crossed. "It'll help."

"Don't waste it on me."

He wishes he could throw something at him, but Arthur already looks half-dead. It seems cruel to do it. Even if Charles doesn't believe he's actually half-dead.

"You don't get a say in that, Arthur."

He doesn't say anything in return. He's already asleep again. Charles hates to be the romantic type, but Arthur really does look peaceful like that. Almost the same kind of peace that he had when Charles found him out by the trees the morning after they brought Jack back. Passed out drunk like a fool with a half-empty beer in his hand 

_Idiot._

Idiot, half-dead moron. Reckless fool. It had been raining the night before. A storm rolling in a few hours after their partying started. That's probably when he got sick. Passed out by a tree in a thunderstorm.

Charles hates him. Charles hates that he loves him. It would be a lot easier to love someone that didn't live his life so recklessly. But he does anyway, like the idiot he himself is, too.

  
  


"Can I tell you somethin'," Arthur says, watching Charles by his bedside table measuring out medicine. "Since I'm on my deathbed?"

"You're not on your deathbed."

"Well, I don't wanna die without tellin' you so let me tell you, _Charles,"_ he says, the name coming out a little thick and heavy with the alcohol in his system. Uncle was up here a few hours ago, telling him whiskey would help the pain.

It did. His head doesn't hurt so much. But there is one very blurry Charles next to him and it is still the most wonderful blur of a person he's ever seen.

"Tell me when you get better."

"No," he says. He knows he shouldn't touch Charles. Not just to keep him from getting sick and dying, too, but for the fact it always feels dangerous to touch anyone at all. But he reaches for Charles anyway, not quite sure what he's doing, just holding onto his arm, the sleeve of his shirt. "I like you, Charles."

"You're drunk."

"You're beautiful."

"You are very drunk."

"You are _very_ beautiful."

"Stop," Charles says quietly. "Tell me when you're better. Don't tell me now."

"Come on, Charles," he says, saying his name again and again because he likes the sound of it it. "I'm tryin' to confess my undying love and devotion on my deathbed here. You can't stop me."

"I am stopping you. So stop. Take this," he says, pressing something into his hand. Arthur sips at it, pulling away when the taste hits him, but Charles makes good on his promise of forcing it down his throat. A hand on Arthur's to keep the cup from leaving his lips until it's gone, leaving a thick slimy coating behind and an aftertaste on his tongue that reminds him of rubber or leather.

"Charles--"

"Sleep," he says, pressing a hand against his shoulder, forcing him back against the mattress. "Talk tomorrow. Just sleep for now."

"I might be dead tomorrow."

Charles smiles softly, shaking his head. He doesn't bother telling Arthur again, but he knows he's thinking it. 

_You're not going to die._

But what if he does?

"Stay," Arthur says quietly.

"A few days ago when I came here you told me to leave because you'd get me sick, now you want me to stay?"

"Don't want to be alone in my final moments. Just stay until I pass. It'll be any second now."

"Arthur…" he trails off, seemingly giving up on anything more than saying his name in that exasperated tone of his. But he stays, taking a seat by his bed.

He takes Arthur's hand, holding onto it gently like he's finally seen that Arthur is telling the truth now. He's dying, and he is surely infecting Charles in these last few moments, but he wants him around. He _needs_ him around. He is going to die without ever properly being with him or admitting how he feels, and Arthur finds himself stupid for taking so long and needing his death to force him to admit this thing inside of his chest beats solely for Charles.

"Are you crying, Arthur?"

"No. Shut the fuck up. I'm dying."

He sniffles, looking away, the lone tear streaking down his face wiped away by Charles' hand. Everything is so foggy and distant, but he can feel the warmth of a palm pressed against his cheek and the darkness of the room flooding in on him as his eyes close, his head moving to press one singular soft kiss against Charles' hand.

And then--

He's gone.

  
  


Charles sits out by the water, watching the waves make ripples on the surface. He doesn't linger long. He just needed a moment to compose himself before he leaves, but he doesn't think there's much of a chance of that. He isn't prepared for this at all.

He leaves the waters, taking the bundle of dandelions with him as he steps over to the house. The stairs creak underneath Charles' feet as he ascends. His hand trails along the railing as he makes his way around the loop to the door, opening it slowly.

The empty bed inside is strange to see. Missing the body of the person he always expected. He sets the dandelions on the pillows, turning to look over the things left out on the tables. Clothes left strewn across surfaces and a satchel hung over the edge of the chest.

"Charles?"

He turns around to the door, Arthur stepping inside. He doesn't have a shirt on, his skin wet with the water from the pond. Scrubbing off all that layer of grime from laying in bed for a week straight.

"You look…"

"Good?"

"Yeah," he says, looking away. "Healthy. Not dead."

"No, you were right on that front, Charles," he says with a smile. "I don't remember much, to be honest. Just… you yellin' at me."

"I didn't yell."

Arthur shrugs, taking another step forward, "What are the flowers for?"

"Your funeral."

"Oh?"

"I came to pay my respects."

And, he thinks, trying to remind himself--not to let Arthur run from what he said before. But it's distracting, it's hard to think when Arthur is half-dressed and in such a small space with him. The flowers were a joke, solely based on pretending that Arthur passed. Now he wishes he was holding them to have something to look at other than Arthur.

"Yeah?" Arthur steps forward one more time. He's too close now. He's far too close. "What kind of respects?"

"Put your shirt on."

"Am I botherin' you?"

"Yes."

"Wish I died now, huh?"

Charles shakes his head, pushing Arthur back a little, "Maybe. But you didn't, so all those deathbed confessions don't amount to much, do they?"

"What deathbed confessions?"

He pauses, trying to see through Arthur's expression. Is he lying because he doesn't want to deal with this, or is he telling the truth because he honestly doesn't remember? Medicine and alcohol making the last week a fog of a memory?

"You told me you loved me," Charles decides. He is not letting Arthur run. That was his only promise today. Keep Arthur from taking it all back when they have finally moved forward.

"I what?" Arthur looks terrified now, searching his face for answers.

"You called me beautiful."

"I was delirious."

"You were. But were you lying?"

Arthur lets out a small sound that can only be described as nervous chatter. It's impossibly funny that it came from Arthur. Robbing and murdering Arthur, terrified about this. But Charles doesn't blame him. People have been killed and slaughtered over this type of feeling.

"No," Arthur says finally. "I guess not. And you? What did you say?"

"I didn't. I told you to rest."

"Of course you did. You could answer now though."

"I would," Charles says, stepping past him. "But you're likely still contagious, and kissing you would likely make me sick."

"You might be already, you know."

Probably. Probably, since he spent the night craned over Arthur's body, holding onto his hand, keeping him company. Feeding him for the last week helping take care of him. He is likely sick.

So he supposes there is no reason not to kiss him.

Maybe he's the one running, then.

Charles turns back to Arthur, taking the one step between them and closing it. He kisses him gently at first. Tentative and scared that Arthur will shove him away, but when he doesn't, he presses Arthur against the wall, kissing him like he might be on his deathbed tomorrow. He thinks he'll always want to kiss Arthur like that. Like it might be the last.

He is a reckless idiot, after all. Any day with Arthur could be the last.

"Take care of me when I'm on my deathbed, then?"

"Of course."

_No more running._


End file.
